Don't Leave me
by World'sOnlyConsultingCriminal
Summary: Things are just starting to work out for the Consulting Detective and his Blogger. But can someone take that away in just a blink of an eye?
1. Chapter 1 (Sherlock)

"John, get my phone for me?" I asked as nicely as I could muster. It seems that people, especially John, react better to politeness. I was lying on my back on the sofa, trying to concentrate on my latest case. This one had rather captured my attention. A serial killer! How brilliant, oh how I love those. But my phone, ringing and buzzing in my pocket, was quite the distraction. Bad news for thinking.

"John?" I popped one eye open and glanced around the flat. Where was he? "John!" I said a little bit louder. Out I suppose. I sighed and pulled out my phone. Text from John. _Have to work late tonight. Sorry about dinner. –JW_

I pouted a little. I had really been looking forward to treating John to something nice for once. According to Mycroft, in a relationship, (not that he knows anything about those) it was pleasant to take your partner out or a nice dinner or a pint. Apparently, running around town and solving cases really isn't key to a brilliant relationship. Neither is Chinese takeout, heads in the fridge, and getting so little sleep there isn't enough time or enough energy for other fun night time activities.

_It's okay, some other time. –SH_ I replied, slightly put off. The one time I'm not insanely busy, he is. Naturally that _would_ happen.

We'd been "together" for a whole two months now, but we really hadn't had a real "go out and have some fun" date. I'd been busy with a couple of crucial cases. John had been putting in a lot of extra hours at the surgery. But we knew how to make it work. Even if it was only a couple of quick kisses in the morning and before bed. Or a couple of bites of food before rushing out to a crime scene. We understand each other perfectly.

_I love you Sherlock. –JW_

_ I know. –SH _I grinned. John would just love that reply. In my opinion, the fact that I'm a smart arse is one of my most attractive qualities. And it always made people want to strangle me. Especially my brother. But with John, it was more of a strangle you in a kinky sort of way. We really hadn't gotten far in our _physical_ relationship. But I could tell he thought about it. And I definitely had little else to think about when I was bored. Which is quite often.

I brushed those thoughts away. No need to waste time thinking about that stuff now. I was determined to let John have it when he returned to the flat. He could take tomorrow off. And if I could just find a serial killer in the next couple of hours we could have the whole night to ourselves.

I cleaned up the flat a little. Why bother letting my clothes, books, and trash clutter the house? All it did was put John in an ugly mood. Me doing a little work around the house wouldn't be the only thing surprising John tonight.

My mobile phone went off again. _You smart arse. –JW_ I grinned at the fact that I knew exactly what he was thinking. We were just perfect like that.

Before I could reply, I received another text. This time from Lestrade. _I need anything you got on the triple murder. Are we dealing with a serial killer? –GL_

I rolled my eyes and replied to John. Lestrade could wait. _I have a surprise for you when you get home. –SH_

_What?_ I sighed. Apparently, John does no good with subtle hints.

_As soon as you walk through that door I'm going to push you against the wall and take you then and there. –SH_

_ What the bloody hell Sherlock?! Please look at who you're texting. –GL_ I paid closer attention to the screen and mentally cringed.

_ Sorry Lestrade. My mistake, it won't happen again. Yes, obviously we're dealing with a serial killer that has a thing for young girls under the age of 12. Judging from the type of weapons used and the one footprint you've found, I believe the man we're looking for is a butcher. Approximately 1.8 meters tall, 206 pounds, and is dark-haired. I believe his name to be Chazz Vantas. Check his flat, you'll find what you need. –SH _

_Thank you, Sherlock. I've got it from here. Oh, and have fun with John tonight. Might as well tell him I say hi. That's my boy. –GL_ I could just see that stupid, smug look on his face.

Oh hell! Now everyone was going to hear about this little mishap. Lestrade couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his own marriage. The stupid tosser. I put my head in my hands. Sherlock Holmes is _not_ supposed to make these kinds of stupid mistakes. This was _John's_ area of expertise.

_What did you say to Lestrade? He's acting all sorts of awkward. –JW_

I sighed. Naturally Lestrade would text John my mistake before I could say something. _I accidently sent a text to him that was meant for you… -SH_

_How bad was it? –JW_

_Bad enough. We'll be the center of the talk for a while. –SH_

_ Oh god. So what did it say? –JW_

_ Sorry love. Moment ruined. You'll see when you get home. All I have to say is that it's a surprise. –SH_

_ Please tell me you didn't blow up another human organ in the microwave… That was the worst surprise ever to come home too. –JW _ I chuckled remembering the look on John's face when he'd walked in right after that unfortunate event. I'd been standing in the middle of the kitchen, covered in gore. For some reason, he didn't want to kiss me that day.

_Possibly involving a bed, I guess, unless you'd prefer the floor… Or the kitchen table… The sooner you can get home, the better. –SH_ With luck, that'll make him want to come home earlier if possible.

_I'll be home in an hour. –JW_

Score! The flat was fairly organized, John would be home soon, and I ready for us to take the next step. Except… I smelled of dead person. I groaned and headed for the bathroom. I might like the fact that dead bodies don't talk, nor do they stick their nose in your business, or try and steal your extremely fashionable scarf, or your extremely sexy boyfriend. But the curse of spending half your time around dead bodies, you start to smell like one.

I showered quickly and walked out of the bathroom in just a towel, frightening a poor little Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, dear! Sherlock, I'm sorry. I assumed you and John would be out to dinner by now! I just stopped by to do some cleaning."

"It's quite alright Mrs. Hudson." I replied, heading towards my bedroom. "John will be along soon, but we're staying in. You probably don't want to be here when he gets here." I winked at her, hoping she'd catch my message.

"Yes! Of course." Her eyes trailed to the floor. "Sherlock dear, couldn't you dry off a bit more. What's even the point of the towel if you won't bother to dry off?"

I rolled my eyes. "Nice seeing you Mrs. Hudson!" I waved as I walked into my room.

"Bye Sherlock! Try not to be too loud tonight! I'm off to bed early."

I laughed to myself; did she honestly believe that John and I could be remotely quiet? I didn't know; all I knew was that I could not _wait_ one more second for John to get home.

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	2. Chapter 2 (Sherlock)

I watched out the window for about ten minutes before John pulled up in a cab. He was definitely in a hurry, tossing his money at the cabbie and dashing to the front door. I sauntered over to the sofa, flinging one arm and one leg over the back, adjusting my robe so it just barely hid every part of me that John would be interested in seeing.

The door banged open and I looked innocently up at the man I love. "Hello John."

He nodded at me, "Sherlock."

I smiled, "Glad you could make it home."

I was barely able to get the words out before John slammed the door, strode over to me, and leaned down; smashing his lips against mine in an excited and urgent kiss. His tongue quickly found mine and before I knew it, his jacket was on the floor and I was pulling him directly over top me.

His hands slid across my bare chest, sending a delighted shiver through my whole body. "Sherlock?" John muttered against my lips.

"Hmm?" I replied, attempting to remove his jumper. I nibbled at his bottom lip playfully and he groaned, apparently losing his train of thought. I decided I wanted, I needed to be on top, and in rolling on top of him, I sent both of us tumbling to the floor. "Sorry, I forgot we were on the sofa." I entangled myself from him, slightly embarrassed, and helped him onto his feet.

"It's alright," John chuckled, rubbing his head. "Maybe we should continue this in the bedroom?"

"I agree. But is your head alright? I don't want you doing anything to tiring if I just managed to give you a concussion."

"I'm fine." John grunted, shoving me against the wall and smacking my head in the process. "I'll just return the favor."

I grinned and commented, "Wow Dr. Watson. You've been hiding all that strength from me." I leaned down to kiss him, undoing his trousers and pushing them to the floor.

John cleared his throat. "Bedroom?"

"Right, you're too good of a distraction." He winked at me and I about lost it then and there. I grabbed him by the arm and lead the way to the bedroom, pushing him roughly onto the bed. Crawling on top of him, I kissed his neck and chest. Biting a little to leave my mark. "My John." I claimed fiercely.

"Yours. All yours." John groaned. "Sherlock…"

"Shhhh…."

"I love you," he managed to spit out.

"I love you too John. But now you should shut up and let me take you."

His eyes widened a little as I ditched my robe and he wormed his way out of his pants. For a second I just relished the fact that this was the first time we'd every actually "slept together." That fact made me nervous at first. Sex wasn't one of my strong suits. I was still a virgin, or at least I was pretty sure I was. Knowing me, I would've deleted any previous unpleasant experience of this sort. But this was John, my John. And it would be perfect. We were made for each other. And since John had only been with women, he was technically a virgin too. That fact made me feel loads better and I pushed on.

He let me take the lead without complaint. I couldn't believe it had taken me this long to find my John, to make him mine. Being with him, being _in_ him was so… absolutely perfect. I felt like that up until this moment I hadn't actually lived, hadn't been complete. As if I was some sort of alien shell with no emotions. But now, now I could anything and everything.

I don't know how long it was before we both let go. Gasping for air I collapsed down next to him and wrapped my arms tightly around him. I could tell that I wasn't the only one trying to regulate my breathing. "Well that was pleasant," I said softly.

John gave me a funny look. "Pleasant? Pleasant?! That's all you have to say?"

"I honestly have no words to express my feelings for what just happened. It was too perfect for words." I looked back at him innocently.

John just rolled his eyes. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That look! The one you're doing now!"

"Well I can't exactly see it now can I?"

He just gestured to the door and I glanced at full length mirror. "What? This is just my face."

John groaned and laid an arm over his eyes. "It's that look, a look that says 'I'm Sherlock bloody Holmes and I'm the sexiest man alive.'"

I laughed. "There's a look for that?"

"Most definitely. And it's the most annoying look in the world. It's smug and it makes me want you more than I should. But at least you deserve to have that look," he kissed my lips once softly. "Most definitely the sexiest man alive."

"Oh John, how you know nothing. You're an idiot."

He glared at me.

"Let me finish you git. I can't possibly be the sexiest man alive if the slot is already filled by you."

John's face went red and I grinned. "I love you John." I kissed his cheek.

"I know."

And soon we were both drifting asleep.

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3 (Sherlock)

I woke up cold and alone. I was naked and the covers were gone. With a quick glance at the clock, I could see that it was only five thirty in the morning. Where was John? He never got up that early. And I'd told him to take the day off work anyway.

Last night came back to me. John and I had finally gone all the way. Was… was John okay? Was he upset about what had happened? He seemed quite willing… But I guess he would've had enough time to change his mind. I got up slowly and started searching for my mobile phone. Where had I left it?

I shoveled through John and my clothes from the night before, but it obviously wasn't in our bedroom. I slipped on my robe and headed for the kitchen, keeping my eyes wide open for it. And there it was, staring at me, from the top shelf of the fridge. I frowned. What on _earth_ was my phone doing in the fridge? I shrugged and pulled it out, I'd been rather excited last night. I probably wasn't going to remember the reasoning behind everything I'd decided to do.

No texts, no missed calls. I speed-dialed John quickly and lifted the phone to my ear. That's when I heard his phone go off in the living room. Walking over there, I lifted it off the sofa. John had just left his mobile there? That didn't make any sense. He never leaves the flat without his phone.

I sat down on the sofa and put my head in my hands. Maybe this just meant that he _really_ didn't want to talk to me. Or maybe he just went out to get milk…

Really Sherlock? I thought to myself. He could have gone to do anything. Just because he left the flat without saying anything, doesn't mean he's upset or angry with me. I got up and headed off to the bathroom. No need to worry about nothing.

When I got out of the shower I was surprised to see the time. It wasn't the first time I'd spent a total of two hours in the shower while visiting my mind palace, but I was usually more aware of the time.

I looked around the flat hopefully, but still no sign of John. I sighed, I had no case and John wasn't home to entertain me. I couldn't even find my skull! What had Mrs. Hudson done with it this time?! I pulled John's gun from his "secret hiding spot." I wasn't an _idiot_. I was Sherlock bloody Holmes. I could find anything he hid from me. His gun, my cigarettes, everything except my skull apparently. Mrs. Hudson is so much better at hiding things.

I plopped onto sofa and shot the wall a couple times. Dull. That was really only fun the first time. I needed something better to do.

I sent a quick text to Lestrade._ I need a case. –SH_

_Aren't you enjoying some time with John? –GL_

I sighed. _No, I don't know where he is. He left his phone here. He was gone when I woke up, not that that's any of your business anyways. –SH_

_Aren't you concerned? –GL_

_ Trying not to be. Do you think I should be? –SH_

_ I don't know. Did you guys go at it last night? –GL_

_ That's really none of your business Lestrade. Piss off. –SH_

_ Alright, alright. I'll just assume so then. –GL_

_ Do you have a case for me or not? –SH_

_ No. It's been slow. -GL_

I could just predict the crap I would get the next time I saw everyone. I shot the wall one last time for good measure. I needed to find John. Or before long I would be creating my own cases. "Sherlock Holmes Goes on Mad Killing Spree." I could see the headliners already. I _needed_ to find John. My boredom would be the end of me.

I pulled on my scarf and walked out the door. I took a cab down to the surgery, John wasn't there. He wasn't at Bart's, he wasn't at the café, and he definitely wasn't at his sister's. I returned to the flat late in the evening, disheartened and mentally exhausted. I had no idea where my John could be.

What if he got hit by a car and no one had yet contacted me?

Or maybe he'd gotten jumped by some random guys and left in an alley to die? He's got one of those faces that screams "rape me" anyways. The guy would never make it in prison. Prison! Maybe he'd gotten himself arrested! I shook that thought out of my head. _I_ was the one that would get arrested out of the two of us. I always got into more trouble than John did. That was the biggest understatement of the century.

Time passed by, but still there was nothing from John. I was beginning to get really worried. If he wasn't home by nine, he always called. It was now ten thirty and I hadn't heard a word. I decided drastic measures needed to be taken.

I was going to call my brother.

"What is it Sherlock?" He sounded rather annoyed.

"How's the diet?"

"Lovely. Now what do you need?"

"How do you know I need something?"

"Do you _normally_ call me this late in the evening?"

"I… I don't know where John is." I said quietly.

"I'm sure he just popped for a bit, must you really call me for such trivial matters?"

"No. Something is wrong. He left his phone, and I haven't seen him since last night. I woke up this morning and he was just _gone_."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "Are you sure he didn't leave a note or something?"

I rolled my eyes, "I think I would've found him by now if he had. Do you know me at all Mycroft?"

"Yes, yes. Alright. I'll start looking. But in the meantime, Sherlock, please don't worry too much. I'm sure he's fine."

"He'd better be."

"I'll send someone out right now."

"Thanks, Mycroft."

And with that he hung up. And I'd never been more concerned in my life.

* * *

_**This chapter is kind of boring. Just setting everything up.**_

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	4. Chapter 4 (Sherlock)

I don't know when or how I fell asleep, but I woke up on the sofa when my mobile phone went off. It was early morning, who would be messaging me now? I looked at it, not a number I recognized. I opened the message wearily. _I'm borrowing your pet. –JM_

Suddenly the floor was no longer there. My head spun out of control. Moriarty had my John. What was he going to do with _my_ John?

_Don't hurt him. –SH_

_Would it really bother you that much? I thought sentiment was a chemical found in the brain of the losing side. –JM_

_You are crazy. –SH_

_ You're just learning that now? –JM_

I couldn't reply. I didn't know what to do. For once I was stumped. Moriarty had left me nothing to go on. I sent Mycroft a quick text. _Moriarty has John. Get him back _now_. –SH_

_ I'll do my best. –MH_

I dialed Lestrade. "Hello."

"Lestrade? Moriarty has John."

He said nothing. "Lestrade? Did you hear me?"

"Yes, yes. I heard you." He said slowly. "I'll send some guys out. Do you have anything to go on?"

"Not yet."

"Don't worry Sherlock. We'll get him back."

I hung up. I wasn't so sure about that. My phone went off again. _You don't have long Sherlylocks. He'll die. Don't bother looking; I didn't leave behind any clues. –JM_ And with the message came a picture. I could see John, chained against a wall. His face was hidden in the shadows, but I could see that he was badly injured. His chest was slashed up bad, and blood was pooled on the floor.

My knees hit the floor. This was why I'd never gotten so close to another human being. I never wanted to put John in this situation. It was my fault he was in so much pain. Tears stung my eyes and fury rose inside me. I was Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock Holmes does _not_ cry. He does not care. He solves crimes. And that's just all this was. I was just solving another crime. I stood up slowly and looked around the room and then glancing back at the picture. That's when I noticed something I hadn't before, Moriarty's mistake. My head cleared. I was going to find this victim. Not just any victim, John, _my_ John. I was _going_ to get my John back.

I examined the picture he'd sent me more carefully. The lighting was natural light. So John was in a room with windows, obviously then not underground. The background had been cleared of anything that would be obvious. But Sherlock Holmes deals with details. I noticed the floor. Hardwood. Kept extraordinarily clean. And it was awfully fancy. Choices? Large, expensive home or large expensive hotel. The wall. Painted simply with bland colours, but done well. Hotel then.

I texted Mycroft and Lestrade about what I had worked out. Then I sat down and studied the picture some more, eventually blowing it up on my computer to study the even smaller details. Between the wall's trimming and the electric sockets I had narrowed it down to two of the biggest hotels in London.

I couldn't help it. I had to text Moriarty. _I'm going to find you. –SH_

_It's too late. He didn't last as long as I thought he would. –JM_

_ You're lying. –SH_

_ I wish I was Sherlock. But it's over. Your pet is dead. Sorry I can't flush him down the toilet like a little goldfish. Guess we can bury him in the backyard. But it's game over. You lose. –JM_

_ Prove it. –SH_

_ As you wish. –JM_ And there was a picture. John lay face down on the floor. He looked… Lifeless.

_I'm going to kill you. –SH_

_I'd love to see you try. Please come collect your garbage. 173 Gloucester Street. Room 221. It's always a pleasure Sherlock. Good day. –JM_

I don't even remember leaving the flat. Gloucester Street wasn't too far from Baker Street. John couldn't really be dead. He was just sleeping… Or... Pretending to be dead. That would be one sick joke, but I'd hug him and tell him it was okay anyways. Because he would be okay. I would be okay. We would be okay.

The cab ride was short and I flew out of it, tossing the fare at the cabbie and running up the steps, shoving aside person after person and shoving apart the doors. I didn't bother to wait for the elevator but dashed up the steps. I didn't think as I ran for the room, I couldn't think.

When I got to the door it was just barely open. I took a moment and steadied my breath as I prepared myself for what I was about to do. My phone beeped. Mycroft. _I'm on my way, wait for me. –MH_

But I ignored it. I pushed the door open slowly and my breath caught in my throat. I could smell all the blood. Then I saw him. My John. He was sprawled out. I ran over him, checking for a pulse. I couldn't find one, but I couldn't believe this. I turned him onto his back to see that he wasn't breathing. I started CPR even though I knew it was useless.

Mycroft found me ten minutes later, sobbing over a dead body that used to be my flat mate, best friend, and lover. It took five people to take me away from him. I clung to his lifeless body as they tried to drag me away. I tried to tell John… Tell him what he meant to me, but I couldn't say anything through the tears. I had been so alone, so alone and I didn't even know how alone I really was. He gave me so much, I owe him everything. I should be the one lying dead on the cold floor. With a sob I managed to mutter this much, "Please… One more miracle for me John... Don't. Be. Dead."

* * *

**_I can't promise any happy endings._**

**_But there will be another chapter or two._**

**_This chapter was hard for me to write. :'c_**

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	5. Chapter 5 (Sherlock)

Everything I had, everything I'd ever worked for, everything I'd ever wanted… It was all gone… Lost forever. Life without John really wasn't life at all. I was no longer living, but barely surviving. I was treading in deep, dark waters. Never being able to take a break, always out of breath, always growing more and more weary, and slowly losing any hope of rescue. How long could I last?

There were so many emotions coursing through my body and mind. Anger, sadness, resentment, grief, abandonment, loss… It had been weeks, or maybe just days… Or possibly even just hours. I had no sense of time or place. I didn't notice who was around me or what they were doing or saying.

I would say that I felt broken, but that barely describes how I felt. I felt that I'd spent all of my life being broken but not knowing it. Then John came along and slowly glued my broken pieces together. But as soon as John was gone, my glue dissolved, and I shattered into even more pieces.

I retreated into my mind palace. I hadn't left it since the _incident_ occurred. I couldn't tell you how long I had stayed there. But it really wasn't much of a relief. The whole palace was tainted, ruined. Everything was dark and dreary. My walls starting to crumble. Stairs falling away completely. Windows becoming dark so there was no cheerful sun or stars to look out at. Every memory I had, everything that was shelved in my mind, smelled or tasted or _somehow_ reminded me of my John. Now every sweet or pleasant part of my mind had turned sour, distasteful.

I had no safe place in my mind to hide, no peaceful place to retreat to. All I got to do was sit and mope and feel sorry for myself. This was not something Sherlock Holmes should be doing. So what? I wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore? Well then who was I?

I heard a voice calling my name. A familiar voice, but I didn't care. Someone was pulling me, trying to move me. But I didn't care who it was, where they were trying to take me, or why they were trying to take me somewhere.

Only when they mentioned John's name did I remove myself from my mind palace and open my eyes to present. I was in my room, in my flat. I glanced at the other side of the bed where John slept and silently cursed whoever it was that thought it was okay to bring me here. I glanced up at the person who woke me. It was Mycroft. Boring, dull, predictable.

"Sherlock. You really must ready yourself. John's funeral is in a couple hours. You haven't moved since I brought you here, and frankly, you smell something terrible." Mycroft said quietly. For once he actually sounded generally concerned. How sweet. _Not_.

"Oh dear brother. Your compassion overwhelms me. Now if you wouldn't mind…" I gestured towards the door.

He sighed. "Fine, but I really do think you should go to the funeral. And I don't want you going unshaven, dirty, and smelling of a camel's arse."

I rolled my eyes, "Whatever makes you happy brother dear." I stood up slowly and walked towards the bathroom. It was just a normal day, and I was going to get through it as the normal Sherlock Holmes normally would.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Hm?" I replied, hardly paying attention.

"I was supposed to ask you… Do you wish to speak at the funeral?" Mycroft questioned cautiously.

I stopped dead in my tracks, taken by surprise. I didn't know what to say. Of course I wanted to speak… But could I? I mean, what would I say? "Yes, I think that would be alright." I said as normally as I could manage. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to shower."

I managed to make it to the bathroom without leaving any cause for Mycroft to suspect my true feelings. I cleaned myself up in a timely mannered and ran what I could say through my head over and over again. But in reality, I knew it wouldn't matter what I said. John was dead, and he was going to stay dead. No matter how much I wanted him back, Sherlock Holmes is not a miracle worker. Maybe I should change occupations.

The cab ride to the church was long and tedious. Mycroft had suggested I ride with him, but I couldn't stand a silent car ride with him to such a sentimental event. Even though I'd grown to care, Mycroft still hadn't. I _really_ thought caring was a good thing, but after taking a look around me, I realized Mycroft was right all along. It really is _not_ an advantage.

I arrived at the church just in time. When I walked through the doors, I could feel every single person's eyes on me. I walked quickly to Mycroft's side and sat down. As I looked around at all the people, I realized that John had many more friends than I had ever considered. The place was packed. If this had been my funeral, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft would have easily been the only attendees. Anyone else would have probably been reporters. As I have clearly stated on multiple occasions, I don't have _friends_… I just have one.

Or maybe I should say "had" one. Considering my one and only flat mate, friend, and lover was lying dead in a coffin in front of me.

The priest dragged on and on about things that I didn't bother to listen to. I'm sure it mentioned how good a person John was even though he didn't attend church or something about life after death and the possibility of reincarnation. I haven't the faintest idea. He didn't mention the things that were really important however. Like the fact that he made tea just perfectly, and he made a great pillow and heater. He always had the cutest jumper on and his smile could melt a million icebergs. His heart was full of love and kindness. And he was brave as a former soldier should be. He was smart, maybe not as smart as I, but definitely smarter than the average Caucasian male. He was and always will be the one and only Dr. John Watson. My Doctor… My John…

When I got up to speak, I could see by the looks on many faces that I was not welcomed. I got up and spoke anyway. After all, he was _my_ John. "Most of you know me. I'm Sherlock Holmes if you didn't. John was… An amazing bloke. But really, that's the understatement of the century. He cared about so many people, and he cared so much. He put his life in danger to make sure others stayed safe. And he risked his own life many of times to save mine. I can say with no doubt in my mind that everyone that met him, _had_ to have loved him in one way or another. I know I did. He wasn't just my flat mate or my doctor or my "sidekick", he was my boyfriend and he was my best friend. He kept both my feet on the ground and he made me see things and people differently. He let me _care_, which is something I had not been capable of doing before. This man was the greatest person I had the honor of knowing in all my years, and I will _never_ be able to fill the newly made hole in my heart. John Hamish Watson will _not_ be forgotten."

I walked back to my seat quietly. I could see Mrs. Hudson sniffling to my left. Sarah sitting in painful silence to my right. And Harry, front in center, stared at the coffin with a look of disbelief on her face, as if none of this was happening. Believe me; I'm sure I had the exact same look on my own face.

When I sat back down, Mycroft patted me on the back lightly. If that was the only comfort he could give, I could take it. But as I sat back, I came upon a realization. Without John, I really was _nothing_. What was the point of anything anymore?

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6 (Sherlock)

_ Losing the love of your life is one of life's most traumatic events. Even when death is anticipated, the surviving spouse experiences a predictable gamut of emotions during the grief process. Most people report feeling numb immediately after the death. Almost everyone experiences denial, anger, disbelief, despair, guilt, shock, sadness, memory loss, and confusion though these may not occur in any specific order. Emotions are intensified and moods change rapidly, causing survivors to question their mental stability. These feelings are normal reactions to loss and help survivors to work through their pain. Survivors need to draw on their belief in themselves and to expect that the mourning process will require time. _

That's what I read on the internet. Why I even felt the need to consult the World Wide Web, I don't know. But all I know is that the emotions were just about right. Denial, anger, disbelief, despair, guilt, shock, sadness, and confusion. Especially the anger and guilt. John was dead because of me. If I hadn't dragged him into my life like the selfish human being I was, he would still be alive. But here we stand. Or more correctly, here _I_ stand.

Coming home to an empty flat is not easy. There is no one to greet me, and his chair sits empty, untouched. The flat seemed to echo from the silence. So much time spent together, so many memories created together are all that is left. Losing him changes my entire life, especially since he was not just a lover, but a best friend. I felt completely lost and totally uncomfortable making even minor decisions. The bed felt too big and I found myself hugging the pillows for comfort.

Silence. Silence used to be good. I always made John be silent when I needed to think. If the ears are the seat of intelligence, it follows that our silence is the space in which we are to learn the most. It is the pulse on which our intellectual life depends. So why wasn't I enjoying an empty, silent flat?

After the funeral, Mycroft offered to stay. He even invited me to stay with him for a while. But honestly? Neither of us really wanted that. Lestrade is friendly, he stops by and we sit and talk about John. It feels good to talk about John, but it also hurts. Mrs. Hudson drops in to see that I'm eating and bathing and taking care of myself. If it weren't for her I would just retreat back into my mind palace and stay there still I wasted away.

I waited a good two months before I actually left the flat. And what did I leave for? Milk. The trip was painful. John always got the milk. He was _good_ at getting the milk.

Honestly I was just bored. And since John wasn't there to make me not bored, I was going to have to figure something out myself. I needed a case.

I dialed Lestrade's number. "Hey, Sherlock. Everything alright?"

"Uh no. I'm bored."

"I'm working right now, but I can hang later if that's what you want."

"No, I need a case."

"Are you sure you're ready for one?" He asked worriedly.

"Yes."

He sighed. "Alright. I'll text you the address. See you soon Sherlock."

I grinned and walked out the door. I was… moving on. I would busy myself and everything would be just okay. When I arrived at the crime scene, my vision became sharper. My senses more alert. I was more me. Everything was almost back to normal when I opened my big, stupid, fat mouth.

"John, what can you tell me about the body?" It was out of instinct, but as I looked around me, I remembered that John wasn't there to tell me what caused the death or even how long the body had been there. I felt Lestrade's hand on my shoulder.

"Maybe you should go home."

I just nodded and got up and walked away. I felt curious eyes on me as I left. I wasn't just a "freak" to Donovan anymore.

I returned to the flat disgusted with myself. How could I have possibly thought that I had moved on? How could I have tried to just go on with a case after all I'd been through? I had lost the only person I'd ever cared about. He was gone forever. I _wasn't_ getting him back. No matter how hard I tried, Sherlock Holmes cannot return people from the grave.

If this was really how it had to end, so be it.

I leaped up the steps and flung myself into the flat. Where was John's gun? I looked everywhere. No one had been by lately to take anything. After thirty minutes and no luck I gave up. I sat down in John's chair and curled my legs up to my chest. I didn't know I was crying until I looked down at my trousers and saw the wet spots. I laughed at my how pathetic I was being. I was a grown man. He had been gone a whole three months. How long was this pain supposed to last?

I heard a footstep in the doorway.

"Did you really think I was just going to leave John's gun lying around in case you decided to go suicidal?"

I rolled my eyes. Mycroft. "Your concern is overwhelming. How's the diet?"

"The diet if fine, thanks for asking. Now Sherlock, where you really planning on shooting yourself in the head to escape your _feelings_?"

"Now I wasn't about to shoot myself in the foot, to escape the task of walking. What good would that have done?"

"Sarcasm will get you nowhere. And I really did think you would be more creative than just a gun to the head. Although I didn't think you'd actually care enough to commit suicide at all. Didn't I tell you that caring wasn't an advantage? Tsk. Somebody should've listened." His words were heavily lined with disapproval.

I glared at him. "You have no right to speak to me that way. Until you fall and love and then have your love murdered, you cannot pretend like you know what I'm going through. You may think that caring isn't an advantage Mycroft. But you are wrong. Dead wrong. Now get the hell out of my flat."

"Ah. Convincing argument Sherlock. But I'm afraid that I'm not leaving you here alone." He gestured to the door. "Let's go."

I got up reluctantly. "I'll still find a way you know."

He just nodded. "Give it time."

I chuckled lightly. He had no idea about caring. I was not going to live without my John.

"Something funny?" He looked at me strangely.

"Not in the slightest."

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_**I wrote this whole thing in one sitting, so if it sucks, I'm sorry.**_

_**Currently depressed and not in the writing mood. **_

_**Next chapter will be up as soon as I've got the motivation.**_

_**Sorry. :/**_


	7. Chapter 7 (John)

**_This is written from John's point of view in case you don't catch on to that quick enough._**

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Sitting cooped up in a dark room for several months isn't really the way I like to spend my time away from Sherlock. I'd rather be at the pub, at work, or just even at the morgue. But after Moriarty locked me in here, I hadn't had much of a choice. The morning after Sherlock and I had finally taken our relationship to the next level, I got out of bed early because I thought I heard something or someone moving around the flat.

Moriarty caught me by surprise, gagged me, and cuffed me before I'd even come to the realization that _the_ James Moriarty was in our flat. Unfortunately, when he grabbed me, I was wearing only a robe… And let's just say things get a little drafty down there.

I'd been sitting in the same room, wearing the same robe for a total of 100 days. I kept a tally running on the wall, and as far as I was aware, I hadn't missed a single day.

I had no visitors. Two meals were delivered a day, pushed through a small door in the wall. Cold tea, fish and chips, and a side of mushy peas. Let me tell you, after so long, your stomach starts to hate you for that diet. My room was furnished with a small toilet and sink, an extremely uncomfortable sofa that was filled with holes, a small bed, and a stack of books which included: _Murder for Dummies_, _100 Simple Ways to Kill a Man_, and _10 Steps for a Successful Homicide._ Not really my top choice for a late night read. Not that I could read at night if I wanted to. All the light I received came from the measly window I had in the corner, so only during the early morning was I allowed a bright and sunny room.

During my stay, I tried on multiple occasions to escape my dirty, rat infested prison. The door was well barred, the walls made of stone, and my window was so high and so small so that even if I could've got past the bars in front of it, I couldn't possible get out that way. Moriarty had done well.

So what did I get to do during my 100 days of captivity? I could've learned easy ways to kill a man, or possibly spent the time catching rats. But what good would learning to kill a man do if I was never to see another human being again?

On certain occasions I was "allowed" (if you could call it that) a brief chat with Moriarty. It was normally done over video chat, in which he showed me certain things that I might possibly find "amusing." For example, 12 days after my arrival, I was "fortunate" enough to get to view my own funeral. I watched as Sherlock got up and spoke, I cried as I watched my love say the sweetest things about me. I could see the pain in his face, but he did not cry. My strong Sherlock Holmes. I knew that if I ever got out of this bloody place, I would propose. There was not a single person on this Earth that could possibly be better than the one and only Consulting Detective.

On day 76, I watched Sherlock go to the market for milk. It was quite a sight, and I felt guilty when I laughed at his confusion at all the different types and sizes and flavors. On day 84, I watched him try a case for the first time and accidently say my name on the crime scene, he left upset and angry. I hoped he wasn't angry at me. He had every right to be angry at me, but my sorrow would only deepen if I knew that look of pure hatred and resentment was aimed towards my leaving him. Later than same day, I watched Mycroft pick up Sherlock in his car, and found out later, thanks to Moriarty, that Sherlock had planned on shooting himself.

This news was too much for me to handle. I slammed the computer screen down and pulled my knees up to my chest. Trying to imagine the world without Sherlock was like trying to imagine the world without the moon… Or fire… Or ground. That's just how messed up the world would be if Sherlock Holmes was no longer in it.

If John Watson did die, the world would keep turning. The sun would still rise and set. The hands on the clocks would still turn and the ground would still be below you. However, if Sherlock Holmes ceased to exist, time would stop. The ground would fall out from beneath us all. The sun would cry up to the point of putting itself out with its tears and the world itself would stop turning. Maybe I was exaggerating a little, but that's how I would feel if I knew that he was gone forever.

I sobbed to myself quietly. I now knew how much I really did mean to Sherlock. Before I had questioned it. He was a "high functioning sociopath" after all. I never really did understand what he saw in me, or why all of a sudden we could be considered a _thing_. I had thought maybe it was just an experiment. But the fact that he would've taken his own life because I was no longer in it startled me. Sherlock Holmes _does_ care. And he cares about _me_. I owe everything to Mycroft, if not for him… I would now be witnessing another funeral on a small screen and I would no longer have anything to live for.

But on day 100, Moriarty's game plan changed.

By the amount of light in my room, I can assume that it was early morning when my door slowly opened. "Dr. John Watson?"

I heard his high, annoying voice before I could see him.

"Jim Moriarty."

"Ah. Good, you're awake." He walked in and sat down, making himself comfortable. "I'd like to have a little chat if you don't mind."

I stayed silent and didn't look at him. He'd reduced me to being a coward. I'd spent all this time in the dark and I couldn't even look him in the eye, let alone reach over and punch his nose into his brain. (Way to kill a man #27.)

He patted my knee. I imagined myself grabbing him by the head and shoulders and breaking his scrawny little neck. (Way to kill a man #86.) "John. I have some news for you! Oh, how you will love this! I'm letting you go."

I looked up at him, taken completely by surprised. "You're letting me go?"

"Must I repeat myself John?" He rolled his eyes. "Don't be so ordinary."

I stood up. "You mean I can just leave?" How easy it would be to kick his throat and smash his windpipe. (Way to kill a man #53.)

"Is there anything from stopping you?" He gestured toward the door, but my eyes stayed on him. There had to be some sort of catch. I could just use my finger to gouge out his eyes. (Way to kill a man #99.)

"No catch my dear Johnny boy. But please go before I change my mind. It was nice to have a pet stay for a while." He smiled. "Oh and please. Change before you go."

One of his guards walked in with an – what I assume to be – very expensive suit, along with a recently shined pair of shoes. Jim turned away as I pulled on pants and then trousers, having to deal with the fancy buttons that I wasn't used to. I prefer jeans.

"Ah, I see it fits you nicely." His evil grin was back as he escorted me out of the room. "This little experiment has been fun. And please, say hello to Sherlock for me."

I was walked to the front door and practically shoved out.

Sun. Fresh air. I could've danced I was so happy. But there was a task at hand. I had to find Sherlock.

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_**Yayyy. John isn't dead. (: Hope you guys feel better now.**_

_**But... I'm afraid things may not be so happy after all.**_

_**I love to read your guys' reviews!**_

_**Last chapter coming soon!**_


	8. Chapter 8 (John)

I stared up at Mycroft's rather large home. I'd never been to his house before, I should probably say mansion actually. It was huge, and that was quite an understatement. Sherlock had briefly described it to me once, but he really hadn't done it justice. It wasn't hard to find Mycroft Holmes in Sherlock's address book, considering Mycroft, Lestrade, and I were his only contacts.

I'd returned to 221B Baker Street to find the flat empty and quiet. I let myself in quietly so that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't see me. Sherlock _had_ to be the first one to know that I was still alive.

As I stood in front of Mycroft's home, I suddenly became nervous. Why? I have no idea. Maybe Sherlock would blame me for everything that had happened. Who knows what he would do after believing me to be dead for three months?

I rang the doorbell reluctantly. I waited and waited but no one answered the door. I grabbed the door knob and turned it slightly, surprised to find it unlocked. The door squeaked as I pushed it open. "Sherlock?" I called out to the empty, dark hallway. "Sherlock? Are you here?"

My question was answered with absolute silence. The only things I could hear were the distant sounds of London traffic, and the soft ticking of an old grandfather clock.

"Mycroft? Sherlock? Anybody home?"

I shut the door behind me and walked into the sitting room. There was a dark figure on the sofa. "Sherlock?" I said again, a bit more softly.

"John?" He groaned. "Why does it hurt so badly? So much pain… Shouldn't it be gone by now?"

"What hurts love?" I knelt by his side and took his head in my hands.

"Dying. Death. I thought it would hurt less when I 'crossed over.'"

My heart dropped. Dying? He was dying? I took a moment to really look at the man I'd missed so much. His face was coated with sweat. His breath was coming too quickly and his heart beating too fast. "Sherlock, why? What did you do?"

"I couldn't live without you. So now we can be together. Be together forever, just like I always wanted. He tried to sit up to kiss me, but he was too weak and his head plopped back onto the sofa.

"Sherlock! I'm still alive, you're still alive."

When he looked at me with disbelief, I explained how Moriarty had taken me and then faked my death. His face changed from looks of disbelief, to anger, to sadness, and then to shock as I explained how Moriarty had kept me in a room and made me watch him. "And then he let me go today," I finished explaining painfully, "Just out of the blue. But now I know why… I get to watch you die. Please, Sherlock, don't leave me."

"John…" His speech was slightly slurred. "Don't cry… John, please don't cry." He wiped a tear off my face.

I wanted to, needed to, just _had_ to find a way to save him. "Sherlock, what did you take? We need to get it out of your system, induce your vomiting or _something_. Or maybe there is an antidote of some kind?" I got up, determined to save him, but he grabbed me the shirt and pulled me back down.

"It's too late John." He managed to whisper gently. "I'm sorry."

I kissed him slowly. "I'm sorry too." I said, looking down at his chest, at my hands. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes.

"John, look at me. Please."

"I wanted to be yours forever," I held back my tears. "Sherlock… I wanted to propose."

I could feel his eyes on me. "Sherlock, I know that we really don't have the time with each other like I had hoped for, but I want to be able to say you were mine. Tell me; please tell me, that if you were to live through this, you would marry me?"

"Of course, John. I love you. I'll always love you. No matter what separates us, even in death, we'll always be together."

I looked up at him to see his eyes filling with tears. I'd made up my mind. If he thought he could just go and leave me. Well, two can play at that game and we could both lose together. "Where is it?" I asked. "The poison? Or whatever you took? Tell me where it is."

He didn't say a word, but his eyes betrayed him when I saw the direction in which they flickered. On the coffee table sat a small bottle of substance I'd never seen or heard of before. I picked it up and pulled off the cap, swirling the remaining contents around.

"John, no. Stop." Sherlock tried to get up and take it from me, but he was growing weaker by the second.

Before I could think myself out of it, I chugged the remnants of the bottle. I cringed at the disgustingness of it as the liquid slid down my throat. "How long?" I asked before looking up at him. On his face I could read disbelief, disappointment, shock, and pain.

I could now see tears mixing with the sweat shining on his beautiful face. He could barely talk. "Fifteen minutes… If even. I had just drunk it when you walked in."

I nodded. I was angry and upset that I'd just barely been late. If I'd arrived minutes earlier, I could've saved him and we could have lived happily ever after together. But I wouldn't voice that, I didn't want him to be any more upset than he already was. I crawled onto the sofa with him and rested my head against his chest. I had already begun to feel my body become shaky and faint. "I love you," I whispered, trying to hold onto any strength my body still had.

"I love you too," Sherlock's voice cracked and I felt him cringe.

"Shh. Don't strain yourself." I interlaced my fingers with his.

I don't know how long we laid there, hands intertwined. Sherlock went first; I felt his heart slow and his breathing become softer. Tears flowed down my face when his grip on my hands loosened and I could no longer feel his heart beating. He was slowly losing warmth and I knew he was gone. I barely had enough strength to lean up to kiss his lips before I blacked out and moved on with the love of my life.

No more crime, hate, or the selfishness of the human race. Just me, Sherlock, and all of eternity to be happy _together_.

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**_Well, that's the end. (: _**

**_I know it's sad, but forgive me anyways._**

**_Leave your reviews, yell at me if you must. _**

**_Good Day. xxx James Moriarty._**


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